Quoting Nietzsche
by Salmagundi
Summary: "Everyone has their theories on how the world will end. The question we need to ask ourselves is what will happen after. You never thought you'd be around long enough to wonder where you fit in, did you?" In the wake of disaster, the residents of South Park struggle to survive in an increasingly harsh world where death and betrayal take no sides. (post-apocalyptic Creek fic)


**Quoting Nietzsche**

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Notes: My undying gratitude to theshadowswhisper for beta-reading so thoroughly. Many thanks also to zombielimeade, kennybuttman, sammy-mun and onevoiceforever for all of the helpful feedback

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**Prologue - The World Before**

'_You don't always think about what means the most to you_.'

The television was a low drone in the background, almost drowned out by the sounds coming from the kitchen. Craig had never been much for Christmas, or for the trappings of Christmas. The materialistic aspect aside - and Craig, for one, had no problem with the peddling of things or the buying of 'love' from family members - it was just stupid how much concern was wasted over something that didn't really mean _anything_.

The pair celebrated the holiday, yes, in their small way, but on their own terms. There was no need for a tree or a wreath. Tweek still refused to go anywhere near the chimney, even with a grate and a blazing fire. Craig wasn't sure if it was because of his abiding fear of gnomes or whether it was the jolly man in red himself who had the blonde in such terror. It scarcely mattered.

The _tradition _mattered, not the holiday. It mattered because it was theirs; not given by anyone else. It was something carefully put together over the years. It was built from the first brush of his hand against the back of Tweek's wrist in the bitter cold. A warm cup of tea when he'd not been able to stomach the usual -

_'No more coffee, for God's sake, Tweek. Normal people drink other things too.'_

- a holiday marathon when there had been no one else.

_...And bah humbug on Token anyway for choosing Clyde to go with his family on their trip to Cancun..._

They'd carved out something for themselves in pennies and stolen moments, something lasting, and the warmth of the mug Tweek pressed into his hands was nothing compared to the warmth of that slight brush of their fingers.

"Are we watching Rudolph?" Tweek asked, though he didn't need to. They always did. It had been the first thing on television when the two of them had holed up together to spend Christmas without the rest of their usual quartet. Regardless of whether they watched it from the beginning or not, Christmas never really began for Craig until the song about misfits. Like some kind of Pavlovian response, there was simply no sense of anything resembling holiday spirit until the first notes hit the air.

Fitting, perhaps.

Tweek's fingers were on the remote, changing away from the movie that had been playing as background noise, flipping through the channels. For a moment there was a surrealness to the actions, a sense of distance that Craig couldn't quantify.

Maybe Tweek felt it too, because his next long breath stretched out to eternity. One hand was still coiled around his mug, the grip tightening until his knuckles showed white. The same image was flashing across the channels, and the flickering of the stations reflected across their faces in stark oranges and reds.

The remote slipped from Tweek's fingers to hit the edge of the coffee table.

An accident. The words held no meaning. How could it be an accident? How could anything with such results ever be an accident?

Tweek was silent beside him, and he could feel the vibrations of every shallow breath through the barest brush of their shoulders. The light of the television flushed the colour from Tweek's pale hair and skin, his eyes locked to the screen.

That should have been the end of it, Craig thought, because as terrible a thing as this was - _and so close?_ - Why the hell would they even have a place like that here, of all places; it was just news now. The reporter was standing in front of the remains of what had been a city, standing in her thick winter coat with the mic in her hand and talking about the tragedy of it all. Behind her there was fire in the distance, and who knew what else in the pervading smoke that crept along the ground.

_Turn it off,_ he almost said. He found himself reaching for the remote to do just that. The small, strangled noise in Tweek's throat brought him up short. His head snapped up again as he was in the midst of bending over to pick up the fallen remote, dark eyes going even darker.

The blaze behind the reporter had dimmed, brightened, dimmed again - a pulse as rhythmic as a beating heart - and then...

And then the world dissolved behind her.

"Oh Jesus-" Jingle Bell Rock was still blaring on the CD player in the kitchen, the lights twinkling on the tree casting the room in greens and blues. The glow of the television was red, the reporter's face twisting in shock. Silent. Animalistic.

_-Static-_

The red light wasn't gone; it was coming in through the window shutters now, dim and brightening. Craig was moving, but there was no thinking involved. His hand fisted in the back of Tweek's paisley reindeer sweater, dragging him toward the stairs. The coffee cup in Tweek's hands hit the ground with a sharp crack that was nearly obscured by the rattle of the walls with the nearing impact.

Down the stairs, down to the ground floor.

_Down. Down. Down._

Craig felt a moment of absurd gratitude toward Tweek's dad. He'd insisted they rent a house with a bomb cellar and hadn't budged. His paranoia was paying off now. Craig's nails tore on the cellar door, blood making his grip slick. Then Tweek was there, pulling on the rusted metal handle with a shriek that pierced through the din.

The door opened a crack, opened wider, deep into the dark. It was a drop without fumbling for the ladder, but there was no time for care. The walls were heaving around them - a living, dying thing - and Craig discarded any attempt at caution, threw himself at Tweek and at the hungry depths of the earth below. The heavy metal door plunged shut behind them as they fell headlong into the dark.

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Far away - three blocks and a world away - Stan hit the floor on elbows and knees, hands scraping at the rug as he tried to catch his balance. Sparky was by the window, barking, backlit red and casting a long black shadow into the room. The other shadows crept in around him, bleeding tendrils onto the floor.

He couldn't move.

Something struck him hard across the back of the head, fingers clutching in the collar of his jacket and almost cutting off his air. Spots blossomed in front of his eyes as a familiar voice grated in his ears.

"Get up, Twerp!"

Get up? And go where? Where could be safe from the grasping shadows creeping in all around? Sparky's barks had a hollow, tinny quality to them, and Stan almost shouted.

_No._

_Wait._

_We can't._

Then he was shoved into the coat closet, the fabric cradling in around him. Shelley was warm, her breath wheezing in her throat. The door slammed shut behind them.

"But Sparky-" Stan found his voice, far too late. There was a buzzing in the air, eclipsing Sparky's yapping, and a new sound tore from the dog's throat. In all his life, Stan had never heard anything like that before.

"He was an old dog..." Shelley whispered as the piercing, gutteral noises emerged from the other room. As though that made it better, somehow. There was a hitch in her throat that might have been fear - or something else. Stan couldn't remember the last time he'd hugged his sister, but he held close to her now, both of them edging away from the light creeping beneath the door.

The howls stopped. _Thank god_.

It was the only vestige of gratitude he could muster as he buried his face against Shelley's shoulder and listened to the world come apart around them.

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There were too many windows. It was the perfect view to an apocalypse. Kyle watched the creeping cloud moving toward them, feeling an odd sense of calm as it enveloped the far runways. There was a woman beside him, shrieking in his ear, and he batted her aside.

"Come on, Bubulah," his mother's voice was low in his ear, and he reached out his hand to entwine with hers. "We've got to get your father." She didn't have to say why for Kyle to understand, like he understood the sudden chill in his veins. He was used to running hot. Hot in anger. Hot in passion. Yet somehow it felt like a familiar coat, this cold enveloping him.

His father didn't have this... this calm in the face of disaster. _You do it because it has to be done..._ It was in the blood, that damned Jersey streak. Hot and cold. And his brother... well, his brother had something else.

Sheila was snatching up her purse - heavy purse... - and they moved together toward the mens' room. Ike was outside the door, a flash of communication passing between them as Ike's eyes met his. Ike tore his rolling bag from Kyle's grip, slammed it to the ground. His foot came down atop it to brace it, hand grabbing the handle. Twisting.

It came away with a crack, double sharp prongs of plastic.

Kyle's fists clenched.

Gerald emerged from the bathroom, still tucking in his shirt. He froze before them, eyes raking over their forms and a look of blank panic settling across his features.

"Come on, Gerald." Was it Sheila's voice? His own? There was fear behind his father's eyes, and they all ignored it, yanking him into the center of their defensive circle and beginning toward the baggage area.

"Ma'am, we have to ask you to remain here-" One of the security staff was saying, moving to intercept them, but his words were cut short as Sheila's purse struck him a stunning blow across the temple, sending him to the floor in a twitching heap. They walked past him without a second glance, save for Gerald who had the reek of terror clinging to him.

They were Broflovskis. They would not be denied.

Their trek to the doors felt like slow motion, beating aside their competitors until they emerged into the front where the taxis were still idling. Ike yanked a door open, dragging the cabbie out onto the pavement, and pushing Gerald into the driver's seat.

"_Drive_, Gerald." His mother intoned. A voice like judgement day.

Kyle could see the questions beneath the surface - it was his father's way - but for once they were swallowed down. The key turned in the ignition, and Gerald's foot was heavy on the pedal as they sped away with doom nipping at their heels.

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"We've had a good run, Mr. Dougie." Kevin surveyed the basement, the trappings of their starship still set up. The LED lights were still blinking. The radio beside the door was blaring the Emergency Broadcast Signal.

They'd abandoned ship, the others.

Granted, most of them had lost interest long before all of this. Grown up, grown apart and out of the need for games of dress up. But even those who had stayed were gone now. The first warnings had driven them away and outside.

His loyal first officer was the only one left.

"We're not done yet, Captain." The redhead's voice rang out and he stood straight and steady, more the Vulcan than Kevin was, pointy ears notwithstanding.

How could he be so calm? And yet...

And yet it was a comfort of sorts.

"A captain goes down with his ship... but you don't have to stay." _You have a family of your own to be with, at the end._

"It is my duty to stand beside you, Captain Stoley." And when Kevin tried to wrap his mind around those words, around how he felt about them, he felt Dougie's hand come to rest upon his shoulder. "And it is my privilege."

"Thank you." He whispered, wishing he felt as confident in the face of the inevitable as his ship's captain persona would have. Was this his Koboyashi Maru, at last?

Dougie was surely thinking the same thing. "Remember, Captain. How we face death is as important as how we face life." _And how would they choose?_ The words didn't need to be spoken to be understood.

His throat tightened. "With dignity, Mr. Dougie."

"_Together_, Captain." A pause. "Kevin."

Funny how much could be said in one word. The sirens on the radio were filling the whole world, a declaration of doom.

"It is a good day to die." Dougie broke the other sounds with his own voice and Kevin almost laughed in grief and despair and gratitude.

"Don't go all Klingon on me now..."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Kevin's eyes drifted to the windows high above, the red light of an early sunset filtering down on them. He imagined the stars twinkling bright and serene, raising a hand and pointing to a place he could not see. "Set a course, Mr. Dougie."

The hand on his shoulder squeezed. "Where to, Captain?"

Brighter now, their eyes pulling away from the windows. Beyond them didn't matter.

"_The second star to the right_," he whispered through the tightness in his throat. " _-and straight on til morning..._"

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The world around Kenny was silent. Somewhere in it all, even the screaming and bickering of his family had fallen still. His feet made no sound on the stairs as he eased upward, nudging open the door to Karen's room. It was nearly swallowed in red light already, creeping in around the tattered curtain and stretching across the floor.

It had been a while since he'd last seen his sister curled on the bed in such a fashion, knees drawn to her chest and her face buried against them. The small rasps of her breath were impossibly loud, jolting through him like physical blows. He was beside her in a heartbeat, his arms wrapping around her quivering shoulders. His voice was a familiar rasp, the tone he always dropped into back in the days of their childhood, when a cape and a mask could offer the reassurance that a mere older brother could not. "Come with me, Karen."

"Angel...?" Her voice was faint. Too faint. Wobbly with shock, or perhaps fear. She looked up at him, eyes wide, the curves of her face cast in reds and pinks, her eyes reflecting the glow from outside. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere safe." It was to his credit that he could say the words not only with a straight face, but like he meant them. What was 'safe' when the world was coming to an end? He didn't have time to dwell on the small details, her hand sliding into his and squeezing, the way it had when they'd both been children lost in the wide world together.

There were no other questions, just the patter of their feet against the floor and the yawning silence outside. The alarms were quiet now, leaving a tinny ringing in Kenny's ears as he made his way to the stairs. Small bits of dust and debris clung to his hair and the threadbare orange parka. He felt Karen's stumble and swept her up into his arms, tucked against his chest as he skidded down the stairs. The room was brightening, light bleeding in through every door, every window, every miniscule orifice.

Nowhere to go... nowhere to hide...

Nowhere big enough for two.

The decision didn't hurt as much as he'd expected. There was only a feeling of dire calm to his motions as he manuevered his way through the debris, past the trappings of their pathetic tree and tattered stockings, toward the far end of the house. There was a cubby beneath the bathroom sink - he remembered nights huddled there, when the fighting had been too much, too loud... a time when the two of them could fit when curled close enough together - it looked woefully small now.

"Stay here, Karen..." He murmured, voice thick and urgent as he disentangled himself from her desperate fingers, taking her hands in his own as she struggled to snatch hold of his jacket. "You have to stay here."

"Kenny-" Her voice was a small, plaintive sound. That she still fit into the tiny space beneath the sink was a blessing... if a sad one. Coiled in upon herself, she looked too fragile... too breakable.

He could never have considered situation this ending any other way.

"You'll be safe here." He brushed his hand at her cheek, felt dampness against his fingertips, and willed his words to be true.

_Just this once._ He thought - to God or the universe - _You take everything from me, but you can give me this. This one thing... _The only thing he needed. The only goddamn thing that mattered anymore.

Karen's hands were outstretched a moment longer, their eyes locked together, then she drew them back, tucked her arms against herself. There was something solemn in her gaze. Unyielding. It was a strength he'd never seen so close to the surface. She would be okay without him -

_And he knew already... he knew she would have to be without him_

- and he felt a calm settle over him. "I love you, Karen." He wondered fleetingly why he'd never said it more and realised he hadn't needed to. He'd said it so many times without ever needing to speak it aloud.

"I love you, Angel." The words were soft but jolting. He pushed the doors to the cubby shut. Swallowed. He could see his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he left the room.

Blonde hair... tattered parka...

_Angel..._

He shut the bathroom door behind himself, leaned his back against it and waited. The red glow was burning the darkness away, brighter and brighter. He turned his face toward it, toward the dust-streaked windows, and let the light consume him.

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Craig's hands fumbled in the dark. There were supplies down here, crates that had been meticulously placed there by Mr. Tweak, containers of food and varied other items. None of those were foremost on his mind yet, not as he dug through them blindly. His hands finally found something useful, fingers scraping along the metal surface before he felt the slight rise of the switch against the pad of his thumb, flipping it.

The flashlight guttered for a moment before turning on, a cold, stark beam in the dimness of the bomb cellar. By the light, he could see the stacks of crates rising far above the floor and disappearing into the blackness above. Every motion sent small pangs of pain through him... there were going to be bruises all along his side, but nothing was broken.

"Tweek...?" He coughed slightly into the dusty chamber. "Are you okay?"

Silence stretched out far too long for comfort, before he heard the faint rasp of a breath shuddering through the chamber. A soft moan rose from nearby, and Craig directed his flashlight there, the beam falling across the blonde's crumpled form where it lay half curled on the floor.

There was a spreading darkness beneath Tweek's skinny frame, his blonde hair matted against his cheeks and the back of his head. His breathing came in shallow pants between his teeth. His eyes were shut. "Tweek?" He could see the twitching, the motion of Tweek's eyes moving behind his closed lids.

"They're coming-" Tweek's voice was so faint he couldn't be sure of the words. The touch against his arm didn't garner any reaction save the fitful trembling of Tweek's limbs. "Oh Jesus... they're already coming..."

"Who?" Craig hadn't meant to ask but the words slipped free anyway. "Who's coming, Tweek?" And he shouldn't be moving Tweek, but there was nothing else to do. Were there any doctors left? Was there _anything _left? Craig slid a hand gently beneath Tweek's nape, felt the slickness of blood-drenched hair against his palm. Slowly, he pulled the skinny blond closer, nudging Tweek's head to rest on his thigh.

"Shadows." A distant, hollow word. A pause. "The man."

_Man? What man?_

"The man in black." Had Craig asked out loud? He didn't think he had... "The man in black... the beginning of the end." His voice had no inflection to it, eyes opening slowly to look hazily at some place past Craig, past the ceiling above them. Craig's gaze followed, but whatever Tweek was looking at was something Craig couldn't see. "The end of the beginning."

Tweek's voice lapsed into silence. A cold silence. A frightening silence.

"Tweek." His own voice cut through, with a note foreign to his ears. "_Tweek_."

The echo of his calls came back to him in mocking whispers, voices upon voices, fading away to become one with the dark.

-tbc-


End file.
